Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Review: Kato - Buried With the Rain

Well, goddamn, chicos y chicas. Carolina's art-sludge boys Kato have released their EP, Buried With the Rain, and all the resounding catastrophes of the outside world have been silenced by BWTR's sheer power. The opening track (or movement) is a heavier-than-hell look into a post-apocalyptic world: very little unification, i.e., scatter-brained step on-and-offs of distortion and reverb, and the consistently inconsistent tempos that ram through the song--destroying the listener and his preconceived notions of hardcore and metal boundaries. 

And I'm just sitting here, with black coffee and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth, shitting myself. 

I mean, how in the hell do I describe the release accurately? It's all I can do to write down anything else but what I'm actually thinking: mainly, "what is this feeling between my shoulderblades? what is this feeling between my shoulderblades? what is this feeling between my shoulderblades? what is this feeling between my shoulderblades? what is this feeling between my shoulderblades? what is this feeling between my shoulderblades? what in the fuck is this feeling that makes me shudder?"

Venturing into near-hardcore arenas in "And All The Rats Gather," with Ceremony-esque down-tempo chugs and the floor-tom work of a peyote-tripping Cherokee Chief, but Kato never quite gets there... They never quite hit the autonomy of hardcore, the self-awareness of punk, or the audacity of metal. In fact, what I can say in full confidence, which is rare--as your reviewer is the kind of 21 year old who tucks in button down shirts into chinos and reads David Foster Wallace over Merlots and IPAs in his spare time--is that Kato's newest effort evokes more of an interminable instrumental feeling than anything. To be sure, the album is aggressive; hell, the album is one of the heavier albums I've heard in a while, but then again, so is Godspeed You Black Emperor's Lift Your Skinny Fists..., and that's what this album is like: the alive in the coffin, the man under (G)od, the alone in the room--claustrophobia with no resolution and no end. 

Sweet Christ.